Broken Promise
by Fulgance
Summary: Maia's last conscious thought before darkness envelops her is that she's broken her promise to her sister. Maia and Iris live in District 13 during the rebellion. This relates their last thoughts and gives us a sneak peek at the rebellious District's end.
1. Promise

**THG belong to Suzanne Collins**

We were dead.

Right from the beginning, I knew we were going to die. We had no chance of winning. What could a poor district like us do against the all-mighty Capitol? That's how I knew.

I cursed my parents, the mayor, and every single person from District Thirteen, and from all the others, who had thought of this rebellion and carried it out. District Thirteen, tired of being hungry, ignored, and overlooked, had rallied all the others and started it all. And now we are going to pay.

Hovercrafts drop explosives from high above us, various unknown machines tear at the fence surrounding my district and run over the desperate people running in the streets. Armed soldiers shoot randomly around them, and constant screams fill previously peaceful District Thirteen. The Capitol have decided to go to the root of the trouble. And they aren't searching to subdue us. No. We encouraged the rebellion. We are going to die, murdered at the hands of the Capitol.

I don't know how it happened, exactly. I was too young to care when the rebellion began, more than eight years ago now. All I know is, we went from being content and satisfied that our demands were being heard and that the Capitol had been tamed, to shrieking and fleeing, terrified, before the hundreds of soldiers invading us.

My fists clench. Why us? The mayor, the influencial adults who decided to rebel, I might have understood their deaths. But why me, too? I'm just sixteen, and I have a family. Well, I used to, anyway. My parents were killed only yesterday, so close to the end, after having survived for three years of steady attacks. The Capitol could have obliterated us in three days if they'd wanted to, but I feel fairly sure a big fraction of their troups is busy with the other twelve districts. And we were fighting back with the weapons we had stolen, manufactured or 'borrowed'. As a result, 'only' three-quarters of my district's seven thousand inhabitants have been killed for now. I know it won't be long until we die, too. My mother and father died a honorable death, I suppose, trying to rescue bodies to allow their families to give them a proper burial. It was also a stupid death, an unnecessary one. Because now, Iris and I...We are alone. And dying.

I glance to my left, where Iris is cowering in a corner, her eyes closed, her face tired and smudged with dirt, her breathing laborious. I think she's asleep...

She's just thirteen. Old enough to understand, old enough to hate and, according to her, old enough to fight. But still much too young to die. Her left leg is burnt and bloody; she can barely walk. One of the countless bombs was launched right next to her because, fool that she was, she'd been out, _fighting_ alongside me. Thankfully it was only a small explosive, destined to scare rather than kill, but it was enough to incapicate her. I had come out unscathed, and if it hadn't been for her, I would already have fled. I might have been somewhere safe now. But she was hurt, she was helpless, and I couldn't bring myself to abandon her.

So I dragged her to this basement. The one underneath the school. It had hundreds of tunnels and we switched from one to another every day. I hoped the school would be among the last buildings to be targeted, because everyone knows how the Capitol is one for education...Although, if you believe Mr. Burman, who was my History teacher and one of the first to vote for the rebellion – and among the first to die -, that's a complete lie. According to him, they want us to live as ignorants. Mr Burman didn't really care, and he taught us about what Panem once was – the United States of America. I wasn't sure I believed it. It sounded like something out of a fairy tale – everyone was equal, we were 'united', the president had the nation's best interests at heart, and we were not separated into districts, but into States with equal rights and duties. He used to tell us, wistfully, that we – the children of Panem – ought to do something about it. He was an optimist.

But that didn't keep him from dying.

In fact, it was probably what had caused his early death.

Speaking against the Capitol is just as bad as rebelling.

"Maia," a faint, barely audible voice utters my name, drawing me from my thoughts.

Instantly I'm kneeling next to Iris, forcing some water between her died, cracked lips, relieved that she's awake. Because, every time she falls asleep, I'm terrified that it's the last time, that she'll never wake up. But she always does. She said she always would. She promised.

For more than two months I stood, fearless, by my father's side, as he fought for what he believed in. We were basically helpless against the soldiers wearing full, impenetrable body armor, but one of the useful things we had learned from Mr Burman was that there was a vulnerable point in this seemingly indestructable suit: their feet. He had made a joke once about it, referring to it as their 'Achille's heel'. Of course, their feet were covered in thick boots, so we – the fighters – broke up into teams of two: one to distract, the other to pull the boots off. As soon as their feet were bare, we crushed them and sliced them off, leaving them to bleed to death. It was a disgusting and slow but necessary job.

Of course, Iris was not allowed to join us, but she always was headstrong and had – still has, actually – a mind of her own. One day, I was searching for survivors among a new pile of corpses. I heard a moan, and felt a jolt of excitement. _Alive,_ I thought. Someone had survived. And then _she_ stood up, slightly swaying, leaning on her sword to steady herself. Her long black hair flying in the wind, her eyes burning with the flame of survival, a still-bleeding cut gracing her jaw, she looked like a heroine from one of the books my mother loved to read to me. There were three dead soldiers at her feet, undoubtedly slayed by her weapon. She grinned.

"Hello, sis'," she said casually.

I was indignant, no, _furious_ that she had put herself in such danger. Was she a complete idiot? Didn't she know what she was risking? She did, and that only irritated me more. But, for some reason, I smiled back at her. Call me stupid. But she looked so confident. So happy. So free. She knew what she was doing, she _wanted_ to do it. She wanted to fight for her freedom, like me, like our father, like our district. So I smiled.

And that was when the bomb hit.

And now I'm here, cradling Iris's head in my hands, forcing myself to examine her mangled leg attentively. But it's hopeless, and I know it. Iris is dying. And when she does, I'll be all alone.

Should I be glad? I know I shouldn't. I want her to live as long as she can. It's a selfish desire, to want to keep her suffering for as long as possible. A small part of me wants her to hurry up and die, but this is, again, for selfish reasons of my own, and not for her to rest in peace. When she's gone, I'll be able to run away. Perhaps I'll survive. She and I...We're the last survivors in our family. We swore to each other that if we were in a situation where one of us could escape, we would. Not because we don't love each other enough to die together. But because we love each other too much to let the other die because of us. But that promise, now...I can't keep it.

I hear the bombs outside. I hear the screams of those trampled by the soldier's running boots. I see, inside my head, my friends' deaths, over and over again, each more gruesome than the last. I can't allow Iris to go like that. Iris...I remember her triumphant expression before the bomb landed. She was fierce yet full of peaceful joy. She _has_ to die free.

I stand up. Iris lets out a moan as her head hits the floor sharply, but I ignore it. I grab her hand and drag her in an upright position, wincing as she lets out an ear-splitting scream of pain.

"Shhh..." I say soothingly, and she suddenly remembers where we are, and how vulnerable we are. "Shhh..."

She immediately clamps her mouth shut, but a moan escapes her lips as I stumble forward, pulling her with me. Despite her plaintif cries, I refuse to let her lie down again. We have to get away. Leave District Thirteen. Be free...even if it's just for a few minutes. She deserves it.

I begin the painful process of half-walking, half-carrying my sister across a good dozen tunnels. I turn left, then right, then right again. I'm frustrated and desperate, Iris's breathing is so faint I can barely hear it anymore, and she has to repeatedly pinch herself to avoid slipping into unconsciousness, which would be fatal. I'm pinching her, too, almost unconsciously. She is forcing herself to breathe, actually has to _think_ about doing the action necessary for human life. And if she faints, she will stop breathing. And choke to death.

I can't let that happen.

"Hey, Iris," I say softly. Then, louder, "Iris!"

She jumps, and her head, which was up till now lolling to the side, lifts slightly. Her bleak, gray eyes stare up at me lifelessly. The spunk and joy is gone, only to be replaced by acceptance at her fate and heartless resignment. I grab her shoulders and shake her, suddenly mad again.

"Iris! Listen to me! Do you want to die, hidden in this tunnel, like a _coward_? Like a scaredy-cat who didn't have the guts to fight for her life, who hid herself away and hoped for the best?" I see hurt flash in her eyes and feel guilty at the harshness of my words. Nevertheless, I go on. "No! You _don't_! Because that isn't what you are, Iris. You're a fighter. You didn't just fight for your life, but for others', too, and for everyone's freedom. You're brave, courageous, fearless. So why aren't you fighting it? _Why?_ Why are you letting yourself die? Why are you leaving me, Iris?" My voice is choked and I feel a single tear escape my eye and slide down my right cheek. I can't live without my sister. She's everything to me.

Iris is looking at her feet. Or maybe her eyes are fixed on her wound, the bloody flesh just barely covered by a once-white sheet of cloth meant to be a bandage. At any rate, she isn't looking at me. When she speaks, her voice is heavy and painful; her words likewise.

"I'm tired of fighting." I reel back in shock, both mentally and physically. _No._ If my sister has lost hope, then... I loosen my grip on her shoulders and she crumples to the ground, making no effort to stand up again. Instead, she hugs her knees and lowers her head. "It's brought nothing but hate, fear, and pain into our lives. I'm sick of it, Maia. You want to know why I'm letting myself die?" I nod, even though I don't. I really, really don't. Not anymore. Not if the reason is as defeatist as her words..."I'm dying because I want to, Maia. I don't want to live. Not if living means hiding like a coward, as you put it. You think I'm brave. But I'm not. I'm not brave or fierce or loyal. The truth is, I _am_ a coward. I can't face this. I don't want to die suffering. But I'd rather die twenty deaths than live in this endless terror." Her voice is faint, breathy, hesitant. I've never heard it like this. Usually it is vibrant and powerful. I have never seen this side of Iris. This is not the sister I know. "You see, Maia...I'm scared."

And this simple statement shocks me to the core. I have never seen Iris scared. She's always been my optimistic, smiling, cheerful, brave, restless and supportive sister. And even though I'm supposed to be the eldest, it feels like she's always looking out for me, and not the other way around. I hate it this way; I hate feeling weak. But I love the protection she offers. Used to offer, because now, I'm as terrified as she is. How can she be scared? That's just not possible.

"Don't say that," I say fiercely. "You're not leaving me."

Iris smiles sadly up at me.

"I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter," she says softly.

Fear paralyzes me. It always has. Instead of doing the natural thing and running away or helping, any sign of danger makes me freeze. I thought I had overcome this when I saw bombs exploding around me and didn't feel the slightest need to stop whatever I was doing – usually, fighting. But it seems I was wrong, because when Iris draws her hunting knife from her belt, I can't do anything. I watch, helplessly, as she holds it out in front of her, the steel blade hauntingly close to her bare throat.

"You know, Maia, you shouldn't feel sad," she says, sounding much older than she really is. "You have a chance to live, now. Escape. Run. Do it. For me, okay? Just...survive. Promise me."

How can she ask me that when she's about to kill herself? I find I'm speechless as wel as paralyzed. I manage a quick, short nod.

The ironic thing is, I'm the one who gave her that knife. It's a wonderful weapon, with a silver hilt and little drawings of leaves carved into the blade. It even has a sheath, which she hasn't bothered to take and which is probably lying in the ruins of our house. I bought the knife from the blacksmith, who is officially there to make shoes for our horses, the ones that work in the mines, but who ever since talk of the rebellion began has been making arrowheads, swords and knives as well. He's a nice soul – or was, I don't know if he's dead or not. He practically gave it to me, refusing to charge anything more than a few coins of silver which would normally buy about half a chicken and no more.

And now the priceless dagger is about to take my sister's life and there's nothing I can do about it because I am literally paralyzed. I honestly can't move and am forced to watch as she drags the blade across her throat, slowly, too slowly. She's making herself suffer, for a reason I can't possibly figure out. But I don't care why, all I care is that she's doing it, and I am watching her die. The razor-sharp edge of the knife cuts into her skin, drawing blood, a lot of it. I close my eyes to avoid watching my sister's gruesome death, and suddenly, I realize I can move again.

I don't wait to ponder over this. Who cares about the _why_? The only important _W_ is the _What_, although my teacher would add _Who, When, Where, Why _and_ How_. Not that _How_ is a _W_. More of an _H_.

I throw myself forward, landing on Iris, knocking the breath out of her, and wrench the weapon out of her grasp. Blood is still flowing from her neck and I try to stop it by applying pressure with my hands, but the end is coming too rapidly and I'm no healer anyway. I've never learned what to do when faced with gaping wounds. I can barely cure a fever! Iris' eyes close against my incompetence and I can practically feel her heartbeat getting slower and more irregular, until, suddenly, it's not there anymore.

Iris is dead.

Iris.

No.

"NO!" I scream, not caring about who hears me. Nothing matters anymore. My sister is dead. The only person I have left. She's _dead_. She killed herself. She did it...for me? But I didn't want her to die...I wanted her to die as a free human. I was going to let her die outside of the district. Couldn't she have waited a little while longer?

I look up and realize something which only adds to my despair. From here I can see light at the end of the tunnel. _Freedom_. If I can see it from here, it means Iris could, too. Why, why did she kill herself? She could have waited just five minutes and died behind the fence surrounding District Thirteen. She could have died peacefully.

Tears stream down my face and I make no attempt to hide them. _Let them fall_, I think._ Let them fall._ Why should I not mourn the death of a sister I loved more than anyone else? Why should I fight back the tears and be strong when no-one is here to watch?

_Because Iris told you to live._

What authority does she have over me, anyway? I'm the older one. She's the coward. The one who was too weak to live. And she was wrong. She told be to run. I will be like her. I will be the Iris I used to know, the Iris who killed three soldiers by herself, who joked when she was hurt, who laughed away the massacre around us. And I will _fight._

The light at the end of the tunnel...I can see dark shapes shadowing it. Human, by the looks of it, but I can immediately tell they're not from my district. Their steps are too loud, too confident, too brutal. No. These are soldiers from the Capitol. My chance to fight seems to have come earlier than expected. I am ready.

I grab the knife which took my sister's life. My other hands holds the gun I nicked from a soldier I killed. It's got plenty of ammo – well, enough for these three soldiers, at least. I'm not sure I will survive the encounter. Who knows? Who cares, anyway? Nothing matters anymore except going down with a fight.

I lift the weapon, take aim, and shoot.

The first soldier goes down with a thud. I wasn't expecting that one. The fool must have forgotten to put on the helmet of his indestructable armor. Let's hope the others did as much.

I shoot again, but the dead one's companions either have more brains or more luck than him, because none of my bullets hit them. They've had the time to get closer, now, and both are pointing their guns at me. In fact, I'm not sure why they haven't killed me yet. But I'm going to take advantage of it.

I launch myself at one, using Iris' knife to rip his boots, and then his feet, off. He's already dead from loss of blood when the last one regains his senses and points the gun at me.

My death is slow, but not painful. I see him pull the trigger, see the bullet shooting out of the barrel. I don't feel it as it pierces my chest, but when I look down, I see a small rose of blood forming on my shirt, spreading until the cloth is soaked and red. It's actually a pretty sight. Who would have thought death was this peaceful? Now I understand Iris. Dying sure is better than living...

My last conscious thought before I let the darkness envelop me is that I've broken my promise to my sister.


	2. Mockingjay

**Don't own.**

**Hadn't planned on continuing this, as it was originally a one-shot, my first one-shot, but hey...Why not, after all? I'm not too happy about it, but I was bored, and I wrote this in about two hours, so bear with me, okay? And if it's really bad, tell me. I'll understand.**

**Guess this means I suck at writing one-shots and should stick to stories. /sigh/**

**If you don't want to hate this story, stick with the first chapter and don't bother reading this one. I think the first chapter stands well enough on its own.  
**

Kacey sighs. It's such tiring, hopeless, disgusting work, searching for survivors in the ruins. Seriously...She hates it. Dragging the bodies away, putting them aside, trying to ignore the heart-wrenching pain as she recognizes friends, family and acquaintances...For every survivor, there are thousands of dead. That's part of the reason why she asked for the school's underground tunnels – few know of them, apart from the students, most of which are already dead, so there is almost no chance of discovering either bodies or survivors. She quite likes the peace she finds there, in the dark, far away from the bloody reality.

"Kace," a voice says quietly, and she cringes at the nickname, "I think there's something over there."

Jaylon is the only person there to disrupt the peace. He used to be a smiling, outgoing guy, but now he's pretty solemn. That doesn't stop him from cracking the occasional joke just to annoy Kacey. She doesn't like him much, but he's among the few who snuck into these tunnels as a kid, so she got stuck with him for a partner when she asked to search for survivors there. Jaylon is three years younger than her, only fourteen, and he's a pain. Really.

"Probably just another rat," Kacey mutters, annoyed.

Rats don't scare her or make her shriek like they do her mother, but right now, anything bothers her, especially the faint scuttling of the damned rodents and Jaylon's constant sightings of presumed bodies which _always_ turn out to be...rats.

"No, Kacey," Jaylon says, and his voice is urgent, like he's actually serious. "Look...It isn't moving. And it's too big for a rat."

Intrigued, Kacey looks. And does a double-take. Jaylon is right, for once. There is a body...but it isn't the type they're looking for. It's a the corpse of a soldier, killed by a bullet in the head.

"Geez, Jay," she says, irritated. "What do we care for Capitol soldiers? Next time, check to see if it's alive before thinking of warning me."

Kacey wasn't always such a bitter person. At least, she doesn't think so. But the rebellion has changed her, like they've changed Jaylon – although perhaps more drastically. She doesn't know humor anymore. And you better not talk about jokes in front of her. This is why she hates Jaylon.

"Who cares about his allegiance? It's a body, and he's _dead_. Show some respect."

"Who're you to give me moral lessons? I'm older than you."

"And dumber, too," he adds.

"Shut _up_, Jaylon."

And he does, but only for a few seconds, because soon after the discovery of the first body, Kacey stumbles over something.

"Idiot," Jaylon says scornfully, and then, "This time, it's a District Thirteen body. Happy?"

Kacey looks down, and she nearly throws up. A young girl, younger even than Jaylon, with long black hair, glassy eyes, a torn leg and a slit throat. Kacey doesn't know which wound took the girl's life, and she doesn't want to know, because just the sight of her is enough to make her want to throw up. Next to her, there's another Capitol soldier, slayed by the traditional District Thirteen signature – feet sliced off, lying in a pool of blood, pain visible on his face. _Yuck._ Somehow, the sight is less horrible than that of the girl.

Jaylon's face is pale, and she's suddenly worried.

"Are you okay?" she asks, even though it's a stupid question. He isn't okay, and he hasn't been okay for a long time. Just like her.

Jaylon shakes his head.

"I know her," he says softly.

"You do?" Kacey isn't surprised. These days, familiar faces are showing up dead everywhere. Kacey herself has seen her aunt, half-brother, and best friend, all dead.

"Her name's Iris," Jaylon continues, audibly gulping back tears. His right hand reaches out, trembling, to touch the girl. "I know – knew – her from school. She was in the grade under me, but we were friends – she liked jokes." Kacey nods; of course she did. There's no other way she could have been friends with someone like Jaylon. "I can't believe she's dead. She isn't...She wasn't the type to go so easily. I thought she would survive until the very end – and even after. I thought she'd be one of the lucky ones."

Kacey understands. The lucky ones, that is the term used to describe those who manage to escape District Thirteen. Kacey's parents and sister are among the lucky ones, but Kacey decided to stay. She doesn't know why. It certainly has nothing to do with bravery. She has never been brave.

"Well, she wasn't," she says briskly. "Come _on_, help me carry her..."

But Jaylon doesn't move. Instead, his eyes switch from Iris' face, to Kacey's, then to something Kacey can't see in the dark. It's on the ground. A long...bump, perhaps? But from the look on her companion's face, she can tell it isn't just any bump. She sighs.

"Another one?" she asks, and he nods.

She kneels next to the bump. This one is another girl, obviously from the same family, too (maybe a sister?), because they have the same angular features and dark hair, although the second girl's is cut short. She's taller, older, and her eyes are closed, which is a relief. Kacey hates the dead ones' glassy stares. They haunt her at night, haunt her dreamless nights. The way this girl died is obvious; there's blood staining her shirt. But there's something else that's different. It's something Kacey's not used to seeing, so it takes her some time to pinpoint it. And when she does, she doesn't quite believe it.

The girl is breathing.

"Kace!" Jay says urgently, and for once she doesn't mind the nickname.

"I know."

Kacey is lost. What should she do? The girl is alive, her chest is rising and falling, but the breathing is irregular, coming in short, brief bursts, and it doesn't take a skilled doctor to guess that she's not going to live for long if she doesn't have immediate treatment. How long has she been out? Kacey asks herself. She doesn't know, but she hopes it hasn't been long.

"Kace!" Jay says again. "Come _on_, help me carry her..."

Even in such a situation, Jaylon can't stop being sarcastic. His mocking use of her earlier words somehow brings Kacey back to the present.

"Careful!" she snaps as he unceremoniously grabs the girl's feet and starts dragging her.

"Not my fault if you're too stupid to do anything," he mutters.

Kacey gently slips her hands under Iris' sister's shoulders and together, they carry her up the stairs, out of the basement, and into the school, where hundreds of bodies are lined up, waiting to be claimed by their family – if there is any left. They hurry to the small room in which the doctors have gathered and are healing various pains. They look tired and weary but when one of them spots Kacey and Jaylon, he immediately goes over to them and relieves them of the girl. As he listens to her heartbeat, looking worried, he asks questions.

"Who is she?"

Kacey doesn't know, but Jay does.

"Maia Dowlin."

Another doctor is helping the first, and they start injecting unknown substances into her body. Her breath is getting steadier, but she doesn't look much better.

"Do you know when she was shot?"

"No. Will she be okay?" Jaylon asks. The doctors frown.

"We hope so. We haven't checked how much damage has been done yet."

This is not very encouraging, but Kacey realizes there is nothing they can do. The pair sits down in a corner and look at their hands, uncomfortable. They've always been uncomfortable around each other, or, at least, Kacey has. But Jaylon isn't usually this silent.

"So... Iris and Maia Dowlin," she says, attempting to make conversation. "How well did you know them?"

Jaylon shrugs.

_O-kaaay...I guess I suck at being social._

"Come on, Jay. You can tell me..."

"Why should I tell you? You don't know me, you didn't know her!" he snaps, and Kacey starts. It's unlike Jaylon to be so harsh. And he's talking about one person, not two, and in the past tense, so it's obviously the dead one he's referring to. _Iris. _"I knew her, okay? She was a friend."

Kacey struggles with this for a moment. A friend? It's been a long time since she's thought of frienship. Ever since her best friend, Lyciana, died, the word 'friend' has been banned from her spoken vocabulary, and she usually tries not to think of it, either. But now, she is trying to remember what it felt like, losing Lyciana. _Lyssie..._ It hurt, she remembers. A lot. But then, it was numb. And, strangely, Kacey couldn't be angry. She just felt... empty. So why is Jaylon so mad?

And then, suddenly, it strikes her.

"You two were together, weren't you?"

The thought is so alien, so strange, so bizarre that she isn't sure she believes it at first. How anyone can date anyone with all the fighting surrounding them is incredible, unbelievable...But when she thinks about it, it makes sense, too. The only way to escape the hate all around them is to love. Still, it's only when Jaylon reacts that she's sure of it.

Jaylon ducks his head, and for a moment she expects him to lash out again. But then, she sees a tiny, dark stain appear on his dirty, torn trousers. Then another, and another...Until she realizes that tears are rolling down his cheeks, faster and faster, and he's crying silently. Kacey hasn't cried in a long, long time. But now, as she puts an arm across Jaylon's shoulders and he leans against her, she feels her own tears mingling with his. Not tears for Iris or Maia, but tears for Iris and Jaylon. Then, when this isn't enough anymore, her thoughts go to her own sister, whom she will doubtless never see again, then to Lyciana, to everyone she has seen die, and they keep crying in each other's arms, united by grief and sorrow.

Until a doctor taps on Jaylon's shoulder, that is.

They spring apart, suddenly embarassed. Kacey despises Jaylon, Jaylon dislikes Kacey. They know this. But now they're closer to each other than they ever have been, and they hate this, too.

But they don't have the time to think about it because the doctor, a woman with dull brown hair and eyes and a weary smile says,

"It's a bit early to be making wild guesses, but...We're fairly sure she'll live." She waits for this to register, and then goes on, "The bullet was surprisingly badly aimed, actually. It pierced her skin and hit a rib which made it ricochet and rip one lung, but really, damage is minimal. She lost consciousness, but she was breathing when you found her and her heartbeat was present. We sutured up the lung and the wound. She's still unconscious but she should be fine."

Jaylon is hugging his knees now, and Kacey knows what he is thinking. She _won't_ be fine. _No-one _will be fine so long as the rebellion is present, especially not someone who has lost a sister – or any family member for that matter. Maia won't be okay, Kacey won't, Jaylon won't, nobody will. Except the lucky ones – and even then, who says the Capitol isn't already tracking them down? Who says they'll be accepted by the other districts?

"Hey, Jaylon," Kacey whispers, trying to find the right words to express what she wants to say, because really, she's no good at this whole reassuring-and-soothing-a-not-so-close-friend business. She glares at the female doctor, who understands and steps back to give them some space. "Jaylon. Don't do this to yourself. I...Do you think Iris would have wanted to see you like this? She would've wanted you to – Ouch!"

Kacey gasps. Jaylon has just hit her. Not a friendly slug either. No, he just delivered a strong punch to her stomach, knocking the air out of her, and before she has time to even double over, he punches her again, this time hitting her cheek. Her head snaps back and the pain is extreme, but she doesn't cry, because Jaylon is glaring at her, his previously empty eyes now filled with pain and fury – especially fury.

"Don't _presume _to tell me what she would have liked me to do! You didn't _know _her like I did! You never even _met_ her! You can't even _imagine_ what it feels like, to have lost her. It's not like losing a family member or a close friend, Kacey! It's not like that at all! Iris was...She was...She was a fighter, a joker, a _survivor_! Just being with her made everything better. She would make everyone believe we'd live, and win. And even though she was young, she'd go outside and fight the soldiers like any grown-up, and she was a better warrior than most of them, and a braver one, too. You know how she hurt her leg? She was outside again, and she killed three soldiers before she was hit by a bomb. I remember that, because she told me. She told me stuff she couldn't tell anyone else. And then her sister took her away, and they were gone, and I thought, I thought...I thought she'd left. I thought she'd left District Thirteen. She dreamed of becoming a healer, you know. She hated the war, she told me she was scared, but she never showed it, and I wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't told me. And now she's gone, and she isn't scared anymore, but I am, because I don't think we've got much chance of winning, now that she's gone...Not that there was much chance to begin with." His voice is bitter now, and he's looking at Kacey with a wild look in his eyes. "Now that you know, Kacey, do you think that you've ever experienced anything like that?"

She chooses her words carefully.

"No, I don't. And Iris sounds like a unique friend. But you have to let go of her, Jaylon, just like you let go of everyone else. We can't afford to grieve anyone's death, not if we want to live."

Jaylon's eyes are shining now, and brimming with tears.

"Don't you get it, you idiot? I don't want to live."

Kacey is sick of his moaning. So he lost a loved one. So what? _So have I, and so has half the district. He should just get over it._ She slaps him.

"_That_," she says, "was for hitting me. And _that_," she adds, slapping him again, "was for what you just said. I thought Iris was supposed to be a fighter? And maybe I didn't know her, but if she was a fighter, she'd have wanted you to be one, too. Don't give up and stop acting like a baby. You're fourteen, for goodness' sake! You're old enough to know better."

"And you're seventeen," he shoots back. "You're not my mother, you're too young to be one anyway, so shut _up_."

"I won't," she says firmly. "I'm older than you. You listen to me, and not the other way around, okay? Stop crying, stop moaning, stop being such a twelve-year-old. I was more mature than _that_ when _I_ was twelve. Heck, I was more mature than that when I was _ten_!"

"Well, when you were ten, we weren't in the middle of a war!"

"A rebellion," she corrects him. "And war supposedly makes you more serious, more mature anyway."

"Well, excuse me, but no-one ever told _me_ that."

Kacey grins triumphiantly, and he looks at her suspiciously.

"What?"

"I made you stop crying," she explains. "That's a relief – I thought I was going to have to take a bucket for you to cry in, or at least a towel to wipe it all up."

He cringes.

"That bad?" he asks, and she nods. "Well, thanks, then. I'm not usually such a crybaby...It's just...losing Iris and all..."

"I understand."

Somehow, Kacey has apparently managed to say the wrong thing once again, because Jaylon's eyes flash and he's angry all of a sudden.

"No, you don't. You don't understand. Stop pretending you do."

"Okay, okay," she says, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender. "Calm down, Jay. You sound so... not you."

Jaylon is silent for a moment, then he says,

"Jay was _her_ nickname for me. She'd call me her mockingjay." The strain in his voice is audible, it's almost as if Kacey were forcing the words out of him. "Sometimes jabberjay, when I talked too much, but it was usually mockingjay..." _Yes,_ Kacey reflects, thinking of the way he mocked her words earlier, _mockingjay suits him. _"Have you ever had a boyfriend, Kace?"

The question takes her by surprise.

"Um...No, I haven't. Before the rebellion... I was just fourteen, your age, and I thought I was too young. And then the Capitol attacked, and I didn't really have time for that kind of relationship. Now I wish I had. Because it's just one more thing I'll never know before I die."

Never know what it feels like to be loved. Never know what it feels like to be in love. Never know what it feels like to kiss someone. Yes, she will never know...

"It's the greatest feeling," Jaylon says, and then he is quiet again, and both sit in silence for hours, long hours which seem like they will never end... until the brown-haired female doctor approaches them again and says,

"She's awake. You can talk to her, if you like."

Jaylon springs up, and he rushes to Maia's side and clutches her hand. She turns her head. It takes him a moment to recognize her, but then, she says, in a weak, dazed voice...

"Jaylon?"

And both burst into tears at the same time, because in each other they see Iris. Maia is the spitting image of what Iris would have looked like if she'd been older, Jaylon knows everything Iris never told her sister. And they both know they will never see Iris again, and the pain is there, getting stronger every second, like a hole being slowly enlarged, like stitches breaking and opening the path to the gaping hole in their heart that is Iris.

Because that's all the dead ever become, really. Holes in other people's hearts. They are never anything tangible, just holes and, sometimes, memories. Sad ones. Kacey should know; her heart is barely there anymore, because of the appaling number of holes in it. That's what dying of grief means – it means having too many holes in your heart, or one so large it eats up your whole heart. Kacey never knew, but now she does.


	3. Awakening

**Hey, guess what? I'd totally forgotten about this fic. But now I realised, it's a good thing I left it alone for months and months, because now I've read Catching Fire and I know some more about District Thirteen. :-D**

**This chapter was much harder than the first two, not sure why. Probably because it's been a long time and I've forgotten the plot, xD.  
**

**Suzanne Collins wrote the WOWing, magnificient, incredible, realistic, first-sci-fi-I've-ever-read_ Hunger Games_ trilogy.**

***

As soon as I open my eyes, I know something is wrong, very wrong.

First off, I am _not _supposed to be opening my eyes. Or even to be alive. Last I remember, I was pretty close to death...

Second, I _hurt_. My chest is rather painful, especially when I try to sit up... Which I do now, and immediately lie back down because of the sting.

My eyes are focusing, too. I can see someone... a woman with brown hair. I try to smile. I must be more or less successful because she smiles back, reassuringly, before rushing off... somewhere. I feel alone, now. Why is that? I don't know this woman, I don't care that she's leaving. So why? Why do I feel so lonely? Something is missing. Someone, maybe?

I take in my surroundings. I'm in the school gymnasium – weird. I was _under _the school last time I was awake, not inside it. I'm lying on a bed and when I look down, my chest is wrapped in thin strips of white cloth; subsitutes for bandages, I suppose. Around me, other beds, stretchers and matresses, as well as chairs and... bodies. Lying on the floor, just a few dozen metres away...

Bodies.

Something tugs at the corner of my mind. I feel I've forgotten something important, but can't possibly remember what. Bodies. Why does that word, the sight of them, trigger something in my memory? Bodies. I've seen many bodies since the beginning of the war. What's so important about them anyway?

"She's awake," a voice calls excitedly.

Chairs are pushed back. I can vaguely hear people whispering a few metres away but can't understand what they're talking about. I distinctly make out rushed footsteps hurrying towards me and suddenly, my hand is grabbed and squeezed so hard I almost attempt to wrench it out of the other's grasp. But then I look up and gasp.

A dark-haired teenager, his face streaked with tears, looks devastated as he openly stares at me, grief clear in his cerulean eyes. It takes me about ten seconds to recognize him, because I've never seen him in such a state, and when I do, I'm certain the surprise in my voice is audible.

"Jaylon?" I whisper, and am horrified to see fresh tears welling up in his eyes.

And then I'm crying along with him, even though I don't exactly know why.

_Not you, too, _I think.

Jaylon used to be a hyperactive, bubbly teenager, a kid who never wanted to grow up. Which was probably why Iris liked him so much. He was never shy, always spoke bluntly. For all I know, he's still like that. But the grinning, cheerful teenage boy I knew is gone. He's become what Iris had become, before she...

_Iris!_

There. I get it, now. Bodies... Jaylon... Both made me think of Iris. Iris, who died. She's _dead_.

My sobs redouble and I lean against Jaylon, who wraps his arms around me protectively. It feels strange because Jaylon was my sister's best friend and boyfriend, but neither of us really wants to think about that, so we just cry for a while, then I sit up, ignoring the searing pain, and grab him by the shoulders. We stare at each other, long and hard, until I murmur,

"What happened to you, Mockingjay?"

He starts.

"What do you mean?" he asks cautiously, trying to hide his reaction to my use of Iris' special term of endearment for him.

"You look terrible. Dead."

I stroke his cheek gently. He's been crying.

"Yes, and _you're_ beautiful, all smudged with dirt from that awful tunnel, and covered in blood because the doctors were too busy to even try to clean you up, and you look exhausted."

"_I_'ve got an excuse. In case you hadn't noticed, _I_'m lying in a hospital bed. Well, school bed. Not you. Me."

"I've slept in school dozens of times," Jaylon says, attempting a joke.

And it's a relatively good joke, considering the circumstances, and I manage a laugh. This is part of the healing process, I know. First the grief -- crying. Then the denial -- joking around. Acceptance comes later. Of course, this process is supposed to last weeks, months, years... But our case is special. We haven't got years. For all we know, we may have only days left.

"I don't doubt it," I say, smiling a little. Then the smile disappears because I have to tell him, he has to know. He deserves to know. She wouldn't have wanted him to know, but he has to. _Has_ to. "She killed herself."

He brutally pushes me away and takes a step back. His expression is closed, but I can see he doesn't understand me. Doesn't believe me. _Won't_ believe me.

"What?"

"Iris killed herself," I repeat. "Committed suicide, if you like. She was sick of life, Jay. Sick of war. _Scared _of it. She was hurt, her leg pained her constantly, she couldn't walk, couldn't fight. And she didn't want to. She... I should have stopped her. But... I couldn't. And... She... she slit her throat herself."

"I don't believe you."

Jaylon's voice is flat, emotionless.

"Iris wasn't like that. She would've fought until the very end. Yes," he says, as if trying to convince himself, "she would've. She was the most courageous soul of our district. She went out fighting. I'm sure of it. Don't lie, Maia. I know she – "

"There goes the Jabberjay," I say mockingly. "I thought so, too," I add softly, and reach out to grab his hand. "All this time... Always. I was the weak one, and even though I was the eldest, I looked up to her. She was strong, unebelievable clever, brave and bordering on arrogant... And now she's gone... I just feel like it's over, you know? Like we're all dead."

"We aren't. We're alive."

"Yes, but... for how long, Jay?"

Jaylon closes his eyes, like he's in pain.

"For the moment," he says softly. "In war, always live for the moment."

Suddenly, I notice a girl hovering anxiously a few steps behind Jaylon. I wave her over and she steps up silently, almost nervously.

"Who's this?" I ask Jaylon.

"Kacey, my... partner," he says. "She knows the underground tunnels like the inside of her pocket. She was with me when I found you."

I blink. Found... me?

Oh gods.

"You're the one..." I close my eyes. "You saw?"

"Yeah," I hear him say.

His voice sounds far away, so far away.

"Yeah, I saw." He hesitates. "I... believe you."

"Because it's the truth," I add, my eyes still closed.

"Yeah. Because it's the truth. I wish it weren't, though."

"Don't we all?" I sigh. "I wish... surely we never trusted the Capitol? Surely we were prepared when we rebelled? There has to be a shelter built especially in case this happened. Somewhere."

"Yeah, of course there is," Jay says, but I can tell he doesn't believe me.

"And we'll find it," his partner adds quickly. "But first, you need some rest."

And I don't complain, because it's true. Just like Jay believed me, because I spoke the truth. We're brought up this way, here in what used to be District 13. Truth is undeniable. Truth is always correct. Truth is truth. I don't think anyone can go against that -- it's impossible not to believe something that's true, no matter how much you try. I could tell myself a hundred times that Isis wasn't dead, and it wouldn't change anything.

I try anyway.

_Iris is alive._

_Iris is alive._

_Iris is alive._

_Iris is alive..._

It's like count-the-sheep_-_to-fall-asleep. After quite a number of _Iris is alive_s, I fall asleep.

Jay is still holding my hand.


	4. Luck

Jay is still standing over the girl – Maia –, still holding her hand. About a half-hour ago, Kacey got up and started walking around asking the doctors if she could do anything to help. As a result, she's been assigned to talking to the patients who are awake, the ones who don't have families left to care about them. This is a large percentage of the wounded, and Kacey is busy – but she loves being busy, it takes her mind off things. Occasionally, she sneaks a glance to where Maia is sleeping, just because. Maybe she's worried about Jay. Jay crying is a frightening sight.

Right now, Kacey is with a girl who can't be half her age and who has a bullet lodged in her shoulder. Nowhere near as dangerous as Maia's, and she seems all right, but still traumatising and potentially fatal for a six-year-old. But she can't let the girl know that. And she's awake, that's a good sign, right? Awake, with a slight fever, but awake nevertheless.

"Hello," she says, smiling at the little girl. "I'm Kacey. What's your name?"

The girl is silent for a moment.

"Ainsley," she says in a little voice. "Where's mama?"

Kacey pushes the girl's blonde hair back, still smiling tenderly.

"She's busy right now," she says, hating the lie. "Maybe you'll see her later."

"Oh." Ainsley thinks about this. "She's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is," Kacey says.

She should have been expecting this. In District Thirteen, truth is important. It's like everyone has a sixth sense, helping them detect lies. Kacey has always respected, worshipped Truth. Even this six-year-old is incapable of believing a lie.

"Papa, too?" Ainsley asks.

"We think so, but we aren't sure."

"All right."

Aisnley seems to accept this. She doesn't cry. Kacey suspects she's seen too much for the news of someone's death – even your family's – to be a surprise. And at that age, Ainsley probably doesn't understand the concept of death.

As if to confirm this, Ainsley asks, changing the subject seemingly without any form of surprise or anguish:

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen," Kacey says, trying not to look surprised herself.

"I'm six and a half," Ainsley announces proudly. "You're _old_." Kacey smiles again. "Am I supposed to feel cold?"

Kacey feels her charge's forehead.

"You're warm, you have a fever," she said. "But you're sick, so it's normal that you feel strange."

"Oh. All right, then."

Ainsley turns around and falls asleep. Kacey's eyes go to the bandage around her shoulder. She is lucky, so lucky, to have gone unscraped. Three years of rebellion, and she hasn't got so much as a scrape. Compared to Iris and her maimed leg and slit throat, to Maia and the bullet lodged just below her heart, to six-year-old Ainsley and her shot shoulder... She, like a few others, has survived. She, like a few others, doesn't know how it happened. _The strongest don't always survive_, she reflects, thinking of Jay's description of Iris. It's luck, pure luck that she has made it this far.

A half-hour later, Kacey is trying to cheer up a thirty-year-old who has lost a leg. A nurse walks up to her. It's the nurse with brown hair, and Kacey is scared because this is the nurse taking care of Maia. Has something happened? Is her situation worse than before? But it isn't Maia the woman wants to tell her about.

She pulls her away from the patient. In a low voice and with the fewest words possible, she informs Kacey of Ainsley's death.

Tears prick Kacey's eyes. Ainsley should have had a chance at life. She never got it. And Kacey... Kacey is seventeen now; that's almost old by today's standards, where hardly anyone gets past thirty without suffering some sort of grave injury. Kacey wishes she were dead, wishes Ainsley could take her place. And even though it might not seem like it, there's a sort of envy in her desire. Ainsley, wherever she is, is in peace. No more war. _Maybe the dead are the real lucky ones in this war._

But it isn't true, and once again, she knows it. Death is not Luck. Death is Death, the same way Truth is Truth. Luck is more insubstantial, more doubtful, more confusing. Its borders are blurred, uncertain. Luck is what has allowed Kacey, and a few others, to survive until now.

And so the foundations of District Thirteen, the underground district, were entirely based a few lucky people, and a few knowledgeable people.


End file.
